


Here Comes the Cold

by Youarethelightoftheworld



Series: Love at Christmastime [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Angst, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Holidays, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, New Year's Eve, not John or Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-27
Packaged: 2017-12-31 07:09:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1028759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Youarethelightoftheworld/pseuds/Youarethelightoftheworld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John used to believe in so many things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. December, Part 1

John wraps himself in a warm blanket and stumbles out of his bedroom. He tiptoes down the stairs with his tongue between his teeth, carefully avoiding the spots that creak. His effort is likely unnecessary, but if Sherlock is sleeping, the last thing he wants is to disturb him.

He makes it to the fireplace, and Sherlock is nowhere in sight. The cold has become unbearable; so sharp and biting that John has summoned the energy to crawl out of his welcoming bed and start a fire.

John doesn’t know how long he sits there, his mind wandering ahead of himself as his body leans into the warmth of the flames. He glances out the window into the darkness, heart leaping at the sight of the snow drifting from the sky. In the thick, peaceful silence of the night, he allows himself one indulgent moment of nostalgia. The snow, the twinkling lights – they remind him of time spent circled around a fire with a family that was once whole and strong. Of a father with a kind face, not yet made unrecognizable by addiction, and a mother whose eyes sparkled in the candlelight. He remembers the innocence that once glowed brightly on his young face, but has long since been left behind.

John used to believe in so many things.

His eyes drift towards the door of Sherlock’s bedroom, and it is as if Sherlock has been waiting for his cue. He emerges, dressing gown askew, and folds himself onto the floor at John’s feet. They sit, wrapped in comfortable silence, and stare into the fire. John closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, suppressing the urge to run his fingers through the inky black hair tickling his knee. 

He reminds himself that he is not alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is taken from St. Patrick's Day by John Mayer


	2. December, Part 2

As December passes them by, John musters up as much Christmas spirit as he can and begins to decorate the flat.  Sherlock helps him put up a tree, and they spend most of their evenings curled up by the fire, their faces lit only by the twinkling lights hung on the mantle. 

Tonight, John stands by the window and looks down upon the busy street below, full of people bundled up and rushing to finish their shopping. Sherlock comes up behind him and smooths a hand over his shoulder.

“What’s the matter?” 

John wonders if the sadness that has been growing within him is written all over his face.  Most likely, Sherlock could name a multitude of clues that gave him away, but he isn't sure he wants to hear them. 

When he doesn’t respond, Sherlock takes a hesitant step closer.  John leans back, relaxing against his chest without a second thought.  They have found themselves in similarly intimate positions many times over the last few weeks, and although John knows he should put an end to it, he cannot summon the strength to move away.

 _After all_ , he thinks, _it’s Christmas, and no one wants to be alone at Christmastime._

Surely, Sherlock will go back to his usual self after the holidays are over. 

 

* * *

 

John pulls his Christmas jumper over his head and reaches up to smooth his hair. He is dreading the day ahead, during which he must show his face at Harry’s for at least a couple of hours. 

Sherlock looks up when he enters the kitchen, grimacing dramatically as he catches sight of John's outfit.

“That jumper is absolutely hideous, John! Dear god, remove it right now.” 

Laughter bubbles up in John’s throat, and he chuckles at the look of horror on Sherlock's face. 

“Sherlock, I can’t. I was supposed to be at Harry’s ten minutes ago. Besides, this is my best Christmas jumper!  I’ll see you tonight, alright? Have a good time at…well…say hello to Mycroft for me.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and listens for the sound of the door.  When he hears the click, he leaps from his chair. 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock does not go to Mycroft’s.  Instead, he drags Mrs. Hudson upstairs to 221B and proceeds to bark orders at her while trying to cook a meal and straighten up the flat all at once.  When John returns home, Sherlock will be ready.

 

* * *

 

“You have to change your jumper before sitting down for dinner.”

John looks up from the doorway and freezes with one arm still in his jacket.

The flat is warm, and Sherlock’s face is glowing in the candlelight.  John tries to speak as he takes in the feast set out on the table, but he finds no words.  Sherlock, as always, seems to understand.  He stares back at John, looking anxious but quite determined. 

“It’s Christmas," he says timidly, "and I thought you should have a proper family dinner.”

John’s face softens, and he moves towards the table, stopping as he catches Sherlock’s eye once more.  He reaches down to the bottom of his jumper and pulls it over his head, never breaking their gaze.

“Well? Is this vest proper attire for our dinner?”       

"It’ll do,” says Sherlock with a gleam in his eye.

 

* * *

 

“My father left us on Christmas day, you know.”

Sherlock looks up to find that John is staring into his plate of mashed potatoes.  He clears his throat and does not question the abrupt change in conversation. Knowing that John finds these kinds of conversations difficult, he wills himself to tread carefully. 

“How old were you?” he asks conversationally. 

“Twelve.  Old enough to understand, but too young to truly believe that he would never come back, you know? I always had hope, even against my better judgment.”

“Why did he leave?” Sherlock asks, so softly that John has to strain to hear him.

John furrows his eyebrows in concentration and shakes his head, continuing to stare resolutely at the table. 

“I don't...I don’t think I’ll ever know the answer to that.”

When John finally glances up to meet his eyes, Sherlock cannot tear his gaze away.

“But I know he didn’t love us enough to stay.”

 

* * *

 

That night, just as he is drifting off to sleep, John hears the creak of his bedroom door.  The bed shifts under Sherlock’s weight as he sits against the headboard, and John turns to look up at him through the darkness.  In the gleam of the moonlight, he can see that Sherlock’s eyes are full of regret.

John wants to ask him why. He wants to bring a smile back to Sherlock's face.  He wants to bring him joy, always.

Instead, in the safety and warmth of Sherlock's company, he lets his own grief rise to the surface.

Sherlock moves towards him, close enough that if John were to lift his head, he could easily rest it in Sherlock's lap.  In the silence of the night, Sherlock whispers:

“He broke your heart.”

John nods.

A hand strokes through his hair, and John closes his eyes, unwilling to give himself over to the touch.

“I love you, John.  More than enough to stay."

And although his heartbeat quickens, and he smiles as he curls his body around Sherlock's, John falls asleep with one haunting thought in his mind: 

 _For how long?_     

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends! As per usual, I do not have a beta. If you see any mistakes, please feel free to let me know! It's very likely, as my keyboard and trackpad have decided to go all wonky this week.
> 
> Thank you for reading :)


	3. December, Part 3

John falls even deeper into a mood.

He spends entire mornings in front of the fire listening to the thump-thump-thump of Sherlock’s footsteps through the flat, the thump-thump-thump of the sleet on the roof, the thump-thump-thump of his heart.  He spends entire afternoons thinking about his family, and the overwhelming desire to let his pain take him under. He has been a soldier all his life, but every so often he loses his will to fight.   _  
_

He spends his evenings thinking about Sherlock.

Sherlock, who has been so uncharacteristically patient, and has not even mentioned the words that he spoke in the dark, although they desperately need mentioning. Sherlock, whose eyes sweep anxiously over John’s face, trying to read some unspoken answer in shadows and lines.

The answer arrives in the post the next day.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock moves quietly, as if afraid that a sudden movement might frighten John away.

“John. Our presence has been requested at a social gathering.”

“A social gathering?”

“A… _party_.” 

Something like amusement shifts behind John’s eyes at the note of obvious disdain in Sherlock’s voice.  Sherlock’s heart leaps at the sight.

“Lestrade.  He has invited us to a New Year’s Eve celebration, and I believe we should attend.”

“ _You_ want to go to a party?”

“Well,” sniffs Sherlock, “Yes. I enjoy company in small doses.  But I shall _not_ participate in the countdown to midnight, John!”

“Oh, _certainly_ not.”

Sherlock looks into John’s eyes and is sure that he is being laughed at.

He must remember to thank Lestrade.  


	4. January, Part 1

Sherlock and John spend most of the evening drinking copious amounts of champagne, avoiding Anderson, and pretending not to notice each other’s not-so-surreptitious glances at the clock as it inches closer to midnight.  John’s mood improves significantly after he eats some food, and Sherlock begins to wonder if John has been right all along about the importance of nutrients.

At 11:57, John’s face lights up.

“Oh!  I almost forgot! Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

Sherlock watches John dash off towards the coatroom and glances at the clock one more time.   What could John possibly need to do at a time like this?

At 20 seconds to midnight, John still hasn’t returned, and people have started counting down. Sherlock glances around the room frantically, while simultaneously attempting to appear completely unaffected.

 

**_20, 19, 18!_ **

John dashes into the room, clutching a bag.

 

**_17, 16, 15!_ **

 

“John, what on _earth-“_

**_14, 13, 12!_ **

He yanks something out of the bag, shoving it over his head -

 

**_11, 10, 9!_ **

 

Becomes hopelessly tangled in the fabric –

 

**_8, 7, 6!_ **

And finally takes a step back, displaying a new black jumper adorned with _actual sequins_ and decorative party hats stitched into the fabric.

“I figured you wouldn’t let me out of the house if you saw me wearing this, so I thought I’d surprise you instead. What do you think?” asks John, wiggling his eyebrows. 

 

**_5, 4!_**

****

“John," Sherlock gasps, "that is the most hideous, ridiculous, _horrendous_ jumper I have  _ever_   -”

  

**_3!_ **

John is in stitches from laughing so hard.

 

**_2!_ **

Sherlock has never loved him more.   

 

**_1! Happy New Year!_ **

He steps forward and presses John against the wall, kissing him without the slightest bit of hesitation. 


	5. January, Part 2

They giggle the entire way home. 

“Did you see Anderson’s face?” gasps John, wiping tears from his eyes and pushing open the door to their flat. 

Sherlock bursts into another uncontrollable fit of laughter, feeling slightly unhinged and wild with happiness.  “Oh, John, I assure you that everyone at the party supported our public display of affection.  They were simply caught off guard by the sight of your appalling jumper!” 

“Hey now, buying this jumper was the best decision I’ve ever made! You’re just jealous that I can pull it off!”

“Mmmmm,” hums Sherlock, raising one eyebrow. “Well, that is true. You do in fact look _ravishing.”_

And just like that, they're done laughing.

 

* * *

_“God,_ Sherlock-” 

The feel of Sherlock’s body pressing against him derails John’s words. His eyes snap open and search for Sherlock’s, but Sherlock is busy leaving a trail of light kisses along his stomach.  When had the horrendous jumper come off?  In the midst of it all, John finds the presence of mind to wonder if Sherlock has already managed to destroy it while he wasn't looking. He stifles the laughter that rises in his chest like a flickering flame and rests a hand in Sherlock’s wild hair, moving his thumb in absentminded circles.

“What do you want, John?” mutters Sherlock, breathing in John’s scent.

“I want my jumper back, you madman.”

 “ _John,_ this is a serious moment!” Sherlock growls, even as his lips curve into a smile.  It is glorious seeing John like this.  He is luminous.  He is alive.  He is Sherlock's.  

“Okay, okay, I'm sorry...I want _you,_ Sherlock – come _here._ ” John clutches at any bit of Sherlock he can reach, dragging him up until he can bury his face in jet-black hair.  

Sherlock presses a light kiss to the space just behind John’s ear and moves down to brush gentle kisses along his neck. 

“Here? _”_ he whispers, pressing his lips to John’s ear as his hand trails lower and lower, stroking ever so lightly.

 _“Sherlock_ , yes…"says John, his breathing becoming heavy and frantic.

“John – you have no idea, I’ve been so worried these last few days.”

They lock eyes, and John takes in a shaky breath as Sherlock's hand continues to move lower. 

“Sherlock, you are the–  _ah-_ the only– just seeing you laugh made me feel so much lighter...”

Sherlock’s mouth curves into a mischievous, lopsided grin as he removes his hand from John's waistband and shifts to press their hips together. 

“Is that so? Well then, by all means, continue to dress in those ridiculous jumpers.  You may get another laugh out of me yet, especially if laughter leads to _this,_ ” he drawls, circling his hips. 

John gasps, happiness flickering across his face even as he moans, deep and unrestrained.  He pulls Sherlock down for a kiss. 

If Sherlock's laughter was enough to improve his entire day, he can't even imagine what  _this_ will do for him.  

 

* * *

 

Later, as John is drifting off to the rhythm of Sherlock's heart, he hears the low rumble of his voice. 

“You haven’t said it back." 

“Hmm?” sighs John, shifting slightly.

“I told you that…that I love you.  And I will love you, for…I won’t leave you, John.”

John slowly lifts his head and gazes at Sherlock, revealing to him the fear that is etched in every line and shadow on his face.  He feels lighter and more at home in Sherlock's arms than he has in quite some time, but something darker still lurks beneath the surface.

“Oh,” whispers Sherlock, cradling John’s face in his hand and nodding slightly.  “Just– just think about it.  You can say it in…in your own time.”

“But quite quickly?” answers John, rubbing their noses together and raising an eyebrow slightly.

Sherlock smiles, and John drifts off to sleep to the sound of quiet laughter. 

 

 


	6. Years Ago

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always thank you so much for reading!

The first time John saw his mother cry, he was six years old.

John was sitting on the couch watching a show while she dusted the bookshelves.  On the telly, a little duck had just discovered that his blankie was missing.  John almost failed to notice the sniffling coming from across the room as he glanced around for his own blankie and tucked it safely around his shoulders.  When he looked up, his mother was leaning against the mantle and clutching a picture frame, tears streaming down her face.

“It’s alright, mummy,” said John wisely. “The ducky will find his blankie.”

But his mum just cried harder.

 

* * *

 

For quite some time, John’s childhood was made up of freshly baked cookies, bedtime stories, snowball fights, and scraped knees.  His mother was beautiful, warm, and never cross with him, and his father was the strongest man he knew. On nights when he didn’t have to work, Hamish Watson would sit at the kitchen table and teach John jokes, his cheeks turning red with laughter.  When John's eyes grew heavy and his yawns became more frequent, his father would lift him into his arms and carry him to bed.

John loved playing in the sitting room while his mother and father made dinner in the kitchen, talking quietly and filling the house with delicious smells and a sense of security.  Sometimes, he would sneak over to the door and watch as they moved around each other with ease.  John often thought to himself that it looked almost like dancing.

Looking back, he wished he had never seen them so happy.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks after Harriet was born, Hamish stood in the doorway of her nursery and told John’s mother that he hadn’t had a job in 9 months.

That night, John saw his mother cry for the second time.

 

* * *

 

 

This was not the first time.  When John was six years old, his father had lost his job and kept it a secret until they no longer had enough money to pay the rent.  Sarah Watson had forgiven her husband’s cowardice and accepted the excuse that he had not wanted to let her down.  He swore that he had thought the situation was under control and that he would find a new job before she even noticed what was wrong.  What was the point in worrying and disappointing her?

The second time, Sarah did not find it so easy to forgive. 

At 11 years old, John spent most nights awake in bed, listening to his parents discuss how they could possibly live off of the savings they had left, what John’s father had been doing when he was meant to be at work, and, once, the possibility of sending Hamish to a psychiatrist. As the months went by, John’s mother did her best to protect her children from the realization that their once whole family was falling apart at the seams. John could sense that his father was ashamed, and over time, Hamish grew distant and angry as a result of the sheer hatred he had for himself.  John would sit at his bedroom door and press his ear to the wall, listening as his father stumbled through the house, trying to be quiet even as he knocked over the liquor bottle he was reaching for in the darkness.  There was no shouting, and he never raised a hand against any of them.  But as the days passed, there was simply an absence of the man John knew. 

The quiet decay of what once was.

That Christmas Eve, John lay under the covers and listened to the front door click shut. 

In the morning, what had been left of his father was gone.

 


	7. January, Part 3

John sits in bed two weeks after New Year’s Eve and decides that it is time to call on an expert.

He throws on a jumper and dashes out the door.

 

* * *

  

“Well dear, I’m so glad you’ve dropped by for some tea!” exclaims Mrs. Hudson, smiling warmly.   

In spite of his mood, John can't help but grin back.  Mrs. Hudson was more cunning than she looked, and he was certain that she knew the real reason behind his visit. 

“Now, drink up, and tell me everything.  I must admit, I knew something must be up when I heard Sherlock _humming_ last week. It was only a matter of time before you came knocking.  So, what is it this time? It must be something awful if he’s this happy!”

“He told me he loved me.”

John thinks he hears a pin drop in the distance.

“Oh, _John!”_ gasps Mrs. Hudson, clapping her hands together in excitement.  “I– well I hardly know what to say! That’s wonderful, darling!  But what could possibly be the matter with that?”

John takes a deep breath, and the words burst out of his mouth before he can hold them back.  “Well, nothing, except for the tiny detail that I don’t think I’m capable of falling in love!”

He turns away, blushing madly, and hurries to explain the whole story. When he has finished, he takes a large gulp of tea and covers his face with his hands.

A warm hand grips his shoulder with surprising strength, and John looks up to see that Mrs. Hudson has moved closer. “John Watson.  You are a wonderful man, and it breaks my heart to hear what you have been through. But you must remember that Sherlock is not the one who hurt you.  Certainly, you have been scarred by your experiences, but choosing to trust Sherlock with your heart is not a mistake.  I'm sure of it.”

John glances up, tears prickling his eyes and threatening to spill over.

“Sherlock Holmes does not love easily, dear.  In fact, I have never once heard him say the words out loud.  Oh, it is written in the way he protects me, and even in the childish fights he picks with Mycroft.  But for him to have spoken those words out loud to you, John...well, I think it means even more than you could possibly know.  You could very well be the first person to have received this declaration from Sherlock.  And dear - you know him better than anyone.  You trust him with your friendship, with your _life_ …why do you hesitate to trust him with your heart?”

John feels the tears escape his eyes, and he blushes even deeper.  "I don’t know, Mrs. Hudson.  You’re absolutely right.  I do trust him with my life.  He is the most incredible man I have ever known, and to think that he has grown to love _me,_  of all people...well, I can't think of anyone I'd rather spend my life with.”

They speak quietly for a few more minutes, and when John has finished his tea, he thanks Mrs. Hudson and turns to leave.  As he is walking out the door, he hears Mrs. Hudson calling softly after him.

“Your memories are a part of you, John.  But don’t let them turn you into stone.”

He smiles gently and walks out of the flat, his head held high. 

 

* * *

 

When John enters 221B, Sherlock is sitting at the kitchen table, engrossed in his notes on different varieties of perfume. 

John walks up behind him and brushes a soft kiss across the top of his head, lingering long enough to feel Sherlock's dark curls on his cheek.

"Mmmm," hums Sherlock, turning to glance at him.  "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"No reason," says John, staring at Sherlock with a gleam in his eyes.

_Because you are my best friend. Because you saved my life, and you continue to save it every day.  Because you are worth the risk.  Because I do love you, and I promise to say it as soon as I can._

Sherock stares back, his eyes full of hope and wonder. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading! If you can, leave a comment letting me know what you think! :)


	8. In the End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friends, we have arrived at the last chapter! Fluffy epilogue to follow :)

It takes time.  Sherlock gives him the space that he needs, and he earns a little more of John's trust each day.  He remains steady and patient, and above all, he gives John his love. 

It takes time, but in the end, John has known all along.

He sits in his chair and watches Sherlock play the violin.  Sherlock’s eyes are closed as if in concentration, but John knows that it is something close to bliss.

He cannot look away.

 

* * *

 

In the end, it is so obvious.

He wakes up in the middle of the night and finds that he cannot fall back asleep because Sherlock is not beside him.

“I just wanted to be near you,” he whispers as he crawls into Sherlock’s bed.

He is asleep before Sherlock can respond.

 

* * *

 

In the end, it is undeniable.

John finds that his body moves in relation to Sherlock’s, _yearns_ for his touch, and is drawn to him like a magnet. 

When they make love for the second time, the words are pounding in his head. 

 

* * *

 

In the end, somehow, it still comes as a shock.

John has just left work, and when he thinks about Sherlock waiting for him at home, he is hit with a wave of pure joy. 

The force of it overtakes him, stopping him in his tracks.

He is nearly twenty minutes away from home.

He runs.

 

* * *

 

In the end, it is so simple.

He says the words, and Sherlock’s smile is as bright as the sun. 

In the end,

They are at the beginning.

And John isn't frightened at all. 


	9. These Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the journey, friends. Here is your epilogue!

At first, John thinks he ought to save the words for only the most important moments.  After all, he decides, love should not be taken lightly. 

This thought process lasts for about five minutes.

 

* * *

 

John bursts through the door and glances around the flat, shouting, “Have you got it?” 

“No, John.  The large green object in the middle of the room is, in fact, a figment of your imagination.”

“Git,” says John, laughing gleefully and practically skipping over to the Christmas tree. “I love you.”

“I know,” smiles Sherlock.  “Now, let’s decorate this ridiculous display of Christmas cheer and be done with it.” 

“I've decided I will let you put the star on top!” 

“Oh, joy.”

 

* * *

 

These days, the words come easily and often, and their brilliance does not fade.  

Sometimes, he says them carefully, with great intent and purpose.  In other moments, they burst from his mouth, as if they cannot be held back.  And sometimes, he does not even realize he has said them until he sees Sherlock's small, shy smile. 

He finds that it does not matter when or how the words are said.  They are true.  They are real.  

They are everything.

 

* * *

 

 _“John,”_ gasps Sherlock, wide-eyed and trembling.

“Sherlock...I love you _so_  much.”

Sherlock’s chest heaves as he catches his breath and holds John close.  “I love you, too. God, we should keep the mistletoe up all year long.” 

John laughs and nods his agreement, relaxing into Sherlock’s embrace.

Without warning, Sherlock flips them over and pins John to the bed, fixing him with a mischievous stare.

“Your turn.”

 

* * *

 

Every once and a while, it all comes crashing down on him.  Truthfully, for John, the wound will probably never be completely healed. 

But without fail, Sherlock is there.

At the sight of the first snowfall, John can feel the grief edging closer and closer.  This time, though, he also feels Sherlock, taking his hand and leading him to the sofa.  Pressing gently until they are curled up together and covered with a blanket.  Brushing a soft kiss across his forehead. 

“Shhh,” Sherlock whispers, stroking his hair.  “I love you.  I love you.  I love you.”

He doesn’t stop until morning, and John wakes up smiling.

 

* * *

 

These days, when John closes his eyes, he can see what his future holds.

Holidays filled with laughter and new traditions.  A chaotic but comfortable home.  The best sex he has ever had.  Adventure, joy, friendship.

A _family_.

The story of his life:

Rewritten, with love. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you all. If you like, you can find me at [youarethelightoftheworld](http://youarethelightoftheworld.tumblr.com/)


End file.
